I am the cleaner
called by the housekeeper
who got a text from the valet
that a Reagan china plate
had been smashed in the President’s Dining Room.

As I swept up the red and gold shards
I thought of all who had slept there when it was a bedroom,
ate there after Jackie turned it into a dining room.
I remember the Bush twins
flicking cereal at each other
when they visited their grandparents.
I was new then, and they were naughty, but polite,
raised in privilege, but with humility, too.

The last family ate healthy meals together.
Laughing teasing sharing.
Phones banned from the table.
In awe of this place.
Grateful and light.
Always my first name.
Hello and please and thank you.

As I try to carefully remove the ketchup from the white woodwork
	The blue and cream rug
	The handmade gold wallpaper
	The delicate vases
	(it went everywhere)
I realize we will need experts
To do restoration work.

The conservators will need to dig deep
into their tool chests
to find something
to remove the stain that
the man-child has left.
Thumbs constantly rubbing his glass and metal soother,
rage and rudeness.
He doesn’t know my name.
No hello, just grunts and discontent.
It’s January 5.
Just a few more days.